


The Other Moriarty

by Gracious_Anne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracious_Anne/pseuds/Gracious_Anne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty may not be Moriarty after all. Spoilers for The Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Moriarty

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Strange use of last names throughout the story.   
> Comments and critique are always welcome.

A shared smirk passed between them, a twinge of excitement in a bundle of will-he won't-he. Watson watched, dry mouthed. He could not stop his heart from pounding in his chest like a war-drum, the last desire to stay alive, burning through heartbeats until the end. Sherlock remained a static object on the edge of the pool, gun poised at the bomb between him and the man who had just changed his mind in the flicker of an eye. Another awful second passed. His blood ringing in his ears, Watson tried to move forward in inch, to steady himself. He was still woozy from the earlier shock of having a bomb strapped to his chest, an experience his blog readers would probably never have, and one he wished desperately to forget as soon as possible. Possibly with a bottle of wine. The glowing red dots glued to his chest and forehead glimmered but stayed put. Watson froze, sure now his feet were under him, though his knees still shook from the aftershock of wearing the explosive laden jacket, having to repeat every word that came into Moriarty's head.

Watson wished he had a gun in his hand, something. He felt helpless, watching his friend pointing the gun that he had so dryly shot the wall with only a few days before. Because Holmes had been bored. All of this madness because a man with money and power was bored, the reason they were at that loathsome pool. There was Holmes and Moriarty, instantly linked, battling for a look of astonishment on each other's faces, using London as their grand chessboard in a stupid game.

Watson thought he saw his friend's finger twitch on the trigger, the back of his dark, curly head light up like a Christmas tree with red fairylike dots. Watson held his breath. He glanced up at Moriarty, who stood so calmly, the bastard, hands at his sides, waiting for Holmes to make the next move. Holmes still waited. Perhaps a sense of survival had crept into the man's brain.  
Watson saw out of the corner of his eye a tiny dot dart from the back of Sherlock's head across the room. He thought he saw it pause for a split second over the bomb, still lit up like red coals, but it landed on the opposite wall behind Moriarty.

No.

Not the wall.

A tiny glowing dot sat directly over Moriarty's heart.

Watson was sure Sherlock had seen it. A glimmer of detection was in his eyes. Holmes hand grew stone steady, trained on the jacket.

Moriarty saw the red dot too. A look of confusion passed over his face. Then suddenly he smiled down at it, cupping his hand over it as if to capture it like a wayward firefly.

He looked up and stared something across the pool, at whom Watson thought might be the rogue  
sharp shooter. The man seemed lost in thought, staring at what Watson felt was his right ear.

Holmes still did not move, though his breathing had quickened. He was waiting, hoping perhaps that the rogue rifle would fire, and the rest of the shooters would turn on the rogue instead. Watson could see the gun almost quivering in his grasp.

They all stood frozen like a scene from play waiting for the curtain to close as the lights dim.

"Stop it," Moriarty shouted playfully at the darkness, tucking his hands in his suit pockets.

"Would good would that do?" He said his tone like that of a parent to a child.

 

"They will still die anyway. Unless"—he paused, bringing a finger to his lips in an almost mocking gesture, Watson thought,--"Unless," he said louder, "you have formed an attachment to them." His face lit up with a mock look of surprise, and laughed at the unseen rifleman, rocking on his feet in childlike glee.

"You are so gullible. A few kind glances and you are at their mercy."

Moriarty tilted his head then as if listening to someone's secret silent rebuttal.

He began to beam, looking up at Holmes with curiosity, waiting, his arms spread wide in silent invitation.

Holmes nearly took that invitation. He raised the gun so it was with Moriarty's head without a second's hesitation.

Moriarty let out a single grunt before hitting the floor.

The red dots miraculously disappeared and Watson spun into action, running towards Moriarty.

Please be dead, he thought bitterly, brushing past Holmes, already kneeling on the checkered floor, studying the blinking mess of wires for a safe detonation.

His shrink had said this type of thing was therapy. Therapy for what? Watson thought miserably. Was living with the eccentric monstrosity that was Sherlock Holmes therapy? Were his nightmares of the dead in Afghanistan helped by the god-awful screech of an underplayed violin?

Writing about it helped. The shrink had gotten that much right. Telling the world Sherlock Holmes was the not only the world's greatest detective but the greatest dunce, still stuck in the ruts of medieval astronomy and yet probably the best man the Enlightenment never had helped him overcome more nightmares than anything else. Watson the army medic never needed writing, it was Watson the careful, Watson the homebody, Watson the locked out of the apartment for the 17th time because Holmes changed the locks again, who needed it. For the first time in his life, he had needed adventure.

Watson knelt beside Moriarty, bleeding profusely. A shot to the gut. The sharp shooter had missed his heart. Moriarty's pulse wavered, but he still breathed. His fine suit was ruined by his own blood spatter. Minutes ago, Watson had been his puppet Watson beat back the need to strangle him then and there. He pressed a careful hand to Moriarty's wound. It looked fatal without immediate surgery.

The shooter had done his job.

Watson sighed. Moriarty had known from the minute he had seen Watson that he was the weak link in Holmes proverbial mail. He had fallen into an easy trap, waiting for Holmes to return from a jaunt at the pool, victorious. A man with all the answers, at least for the important things.   
He glanced back at Holmes to see him trying to decipher how to defuse the bomb.

"Alive?" Holmes asked quietly, sensing his friend's gaze, not even glancing up, his hands nimbly working through the wires.

"Yes." Watson said, licking his lips, pressing the wound a bit more. He was still out of breath. Moriarty still rather immobile, too quiet for Watson's liking.

"How long?"

"Half-hour tops."

"Call a hospital. Then Lestrade."

"What about—"

"They've been called off." Holmes interjected. "I don't know why yet. Working that out."

Watson rummaged in his pocket for his mobile, fished it out and began to dial, but before he could finish he felt the tip of rifle bore against his temple. He stiffened instantly.

"Drop it," said the voice above him.

Watson let the phone clatter to the tile floor.

"Sherlock Holmes," said the disembodied voice sharply, addressing his preoccupied colleague. "Slide the gun over here--now."

A woman?

Watson felt the barrel of a rifle bore into his skin. He cringed. He heard the gun skid across the floor and the shuffle of Holmes feet.

"Thank you kindly," the voice said dryly.

Watson breathed a short sigh of relief despite himself as the rifle lifted from his temple and jabbed him hard in the shoulder.

"Up." said the voice.

Was that an Irish accent? Why did he think that, Watson wondered. Was Sherlock's cold detachment finally rubbing off on him in light of certain events? It was better to think rationally than to faint from shock or the growing emptiness in his stomach. When *was* the last time he ate? He got up shakily, and backed up at the shooter's direction to where Holmes stood beside hands on his head, expression sullen. Watson silently followed suit.

The shooter was indeed a woman as Watson had first perceived, but the woman was younger than he had first supposed, a few years younger than Moriarty. Her hair, short enough to tuck behind her ears gave her a more masculine appearance. Watson was sure he had seen her before, for some odd reason. The suit and tie were out of place with her military demeanor, but they gave her a polished look that Watson and he thought absentmindedly, Holmes had not been expecting. But Holmes was still grinning, nonetheless. He had recognized her instantly and reveled in the fact. A woman in a suit pointing a rifle at his head did not faze his genius brain. He probably could tell Watson what toothpaste the woman used this morning, or some daft thing like that. Watson could not help but roll his eyes at him. Holmes did not seem to notice.

The woman jabbed Jim Moriarty experimentally with her foot, gun still pointed at Sherlock's forehead. His breathing was getting shallower. After a moment, she turned her full attention to them.

"So this is Mr. Holmes," she said pleasantly, though it lent towards mocking the man, rather than offering a way for conversation or negotiation. The woman cocked her head to the side a little and peered at Holmes with curiosity. Her mannerisms were strikingly similar to Moriarty's strangely, Watson thought. Girlfriend? Maybe? A glance at Holmes told him that his friend knew her date of birth and other certain facts.

"The man who didn't know the earth revolved around the sun," she said. "How fascinating."  
Holmes smirk faltered. "Quite," He said curtly. "And you were homeless yesterday. You do have odd choices in haunts, rather out of the way don't you think? A bit close to certain gallery with a certain painting."

Watson's mind clung to that bit of information. The gallery. Holmes had paid a girl 50 quid to provide information. The woman had cut her hair and was wearing a man's suit since he had last seen her, her features more sharp, her stance more confident and self-assured, but it was one and the same.  
She was the homeless tea-selling woman from outside the gallery.

The woman practically glowed.

"Good Holmes, good," she purred. "You are catching on. You are not the only person with the art of disguise up their sleeve. Pity he—she pressed the heel of her boot on Moriarty's hand, making him cry out--showed his hand too soon." now on your knees. She gave Holmes a fake curtsy, which would have been in good form had she not worn trousers.

Holmes did not budge. His mouth pinched in a thin line.

"Might I remind you," the woman started slowly, her patience obviously being taxed." That the remote to the bomb is still armed and ready?"

Holmes remained dead still for half a second before, nostrils flaring, and then very slowly sank to his knees. He scowled at her when she gestured he should put his head on his head, but she did not seem to notice.

She had turned her attention once more to her dying boss.  
"No one ever gets to me. And nobody ever will," She mocked. She laughed coldly.  
"Bloody fool." She jabbed hard him again. She was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and a slight groan.

"Ask for mercy Jim," she whispered. "Mercy?"

Watson could not here the man's faint and pitiful whimper of a reply, but Moriarty's bravado had vanished.

"Daddy has had enough now," she repeated, her voice high pitched, leaning forward over Moriarty and pressed her mouth to his ear.

"But Mummy holds the checkbook," she said darkly, "and she has had quite enough. "

She shot him in the head then, point black. The shot echoed throughout the high-ceiled room resounding like thunder. The surface of the pool rippled.

Watson winced at the noise, closing his eyes, when he opened them the woman was standing there regarding them, now standing in her brother's growing pool of blood.

She was watched them for their reactions he realized. The game of who could astonish who was on.

The woman raised an eyebrow, regarding Holmes with something like fascination and amused rolled into one. He was not looking back at her, but at the blood filling in the cracks of the tiles. Watson saw resignation written on his face, but also Holmes looked a tiny bit determined to survive, therefore a glint of excitement and hope still lingered there. After all, here was something new for Holmes to decipher.

"I see you think I'm cold and heartless," she said to Holmes. She stepped forward. "Perhaps I am," she said in a whisper, "but, I surprised you didn't I?" she continued, "—Aye there's the rub. Little old me surprising big bad you."

She grinned at Holmes, and gave Watson a sly look. Watson's stomach grew queasy.

She turned slightly to consider the form of Moriarty. The barrel of the gun dropped a few inches.

"Dear Jim, fix this. Jim fix that," she said, the tone of her voice cold and mocking. "Jim the criminal specialist. Too busy making you dance, Mr. Holmes. Though you are so very entertaining. You both are actually."

Holmes scowled at her.

"Why don't you speak Mr. Holmes?" she asked him, the gun lowered to the ground but still very present.  
Holmes sniffed and began studying the tiles by her boots.

"Oh," the woman said darkly, "it's that."  
Watson looked up confused. He spoke, if not to distract her from using the rifle again then to amuse her.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My suit," she said, tugging at her tie, prying the knot loose. "It's bothering him." She chuckled. Holmes expression remained the same. Defiant, haughty even, if Watson was truthful about it.

"It is bothering you as well," she said.   
Watson gave her a baffled look, but couldn't deny the sneaking suspicious that there was something off about the suit.

Watson watched as she analytically regarded the body and leaning down to poke at it as if gage how much blood was coming out and how much more would puddle and drip into the surface of the pool. Morbidly satisfied, she turned back towards her captive but irritated audience.

"That's funny," she said, as if the seconds between her sentences were non-existent. Holmes and Watson knew from her tone that there was nothing funny about their predicament.

" Every boy and girl plays dress up with their parents' clothes. In my case, it was more fun to dress in Daddy's clothes. Mummy's were so boring. But what is really fascinating to you Holmes is that I'm playing dress up. I just killed a man and Sherlock Holmes is more intrigued in my fashion sense than the fact I just murdered someone. But for who am I dressed up for he wonders? For Jim here? Or for you two?"

She smiled. "The great Sherlock Holmes…does…not…know."

"Not yet," said Holmes quietly, his gaze steady.

As a reply, she undid the knot of her green tie and threw it into the pool. She watched it float on the surface a moment before coming back to them.

"Ever read the Bible, Holmes?" she asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

No answer. Watson, however, could feel his friend's mind lashing out at data that he could not see or comprehend from such a question, categorizing it at lightning speed.

"Lots of thou's and thee's and he's," she continued, "and brothers… and your sons in it, don't you think?" She continued, staring at Watson, though he did not know why, but now was determinedly lock-jawed in any case. "Lots of men, however never women when promises and contracts and legal documents are made. Never anything about daughters, except for property and singing. Never she. Never will she inherit the earth."

She peered down them as if from a great height, as if from her perch minutes before she had not seen them really, through her range.

"Of course, you never read it that closely." she continued, suddenly. "Judging by his blog."  
Watson gave Holmes an apologetic look as Holmes rolled his eyes at the pool ceiling. If they somehow survived this, he would never hear the end of it. Watson made a mental note to delete that entry entirely. And his bad leg was beginning to buckle under the stress.

"But you Holmes, you are more observant than that. You never assume. Just like the Bible isn't gender inclusive or whatever, people don't assume it means only the men are promised the earth. Nevertheless, when I shot Jim here, you assumed. You assumed I was a man. With insufficient data. Sharp shooter equals man. Typical. You never must assume, Holmes. Especially now, when gender is so fluid.—she gestured at her suit—"He could mean a lot of things. For instance: Moriarty." She sat down on her hunches in front of them and rocked back and forth, smirking.

"Wait," said Watson, a strange thought coming into his head. "You are the one they all were talking about? You are Moriarty?"

The woman looked down at him with a look of genuine amazement. "Well," she said slowly, looking at Holmes, "he's a bit brighter than I thought. Holmes, you should really invest in him. He's a keeper."

Holmes ignored her.

"You used Jim until you decided we should be taken out, why is that?" Holmes asked, instead, brows furrowed. "What changed your mind?"

"Oh, Jim changed his mind all by his lonesome, Holmes."

"Ah. Thus, you are now the brand new boss... No papers to sign just a man to kill. Wouldn't Daddy be proud?"

Moriarty scowled at him and raised the gun back at his head. The dread in Watson's chest that had been growing tightened in a knot. This Moriarty may play with her food, but she did not like it when it talked back.

"You could ask him yourself," she said sullenly, "but I don't think you too would like each other very much."

"Ah. So how long do we have to live?"

Moriarty's face itself up in concentration.

"I haven't decided yet. Much more fun."

"Well," Holmes said slowly, "Watson here would love a time table. Wouldn't you Watson?"

"Don't drag me into this," said Watson with a sigh.

"When you have quit waltzing and have begun dancing a jig," Moriarty replied her voice low and threatening. She crouched, dipping a finger in Jim Moriarty's blood watching it drip down her finger.

"Now, about those pesky missile plans…"

Moriarty trialed off, rising again, her hand bloody as she held the rifle lazily in her hand. Her gaze was resolutely fixed on Holmes.

"How is the other Holmes these days?" Moriarty asked pleasantly, as if she was a neighbor who just remembered her manners. " Been awhile since I've seen poking his nose into criminal business that is not run by the mafia. He's worried about you isn't he? Force feeding you cases, hmm?"

Holmes's expression darkened. Watson saw his friend's shoulders tense and hands stiffened on his head. It dawned on Watson this might be the closest thing to fear he had seen from Sherlock Holmes. Every word Moriarty said was a threat, a challenge, and these words were aimed at Mycroft. But this was more than that. Within a few moments, Holmes face had gone quite blank, his skin growing pale.

"What did you do?" He asked slowly. Watson could almost see that mind reeling for hints within

Moriarty's too sweet smile, her eyes softening (in delight, Watson thought) as she watched the great detective squirm inwardly at her veiled threat.

"Well, he has been so thoughtful of you," she said. "I thought I'd send him a little present."

Watson saw Holmes twitch almost imperceptibly.

"You won't."

Moriarty tucked her left hand into her trouser pocket, holding the rifle at hip level, confident.

"Wouldn't Holmes, and I have."

Holmes bit the inside of his lip.

"There's your brain working dear," She said, almost in an encouraging way. "Keep working at it. You'll get it. What's. My. Plan."

After a beat of silence, the water lapping up Jim Moriarty's blood she said: "You never answered my question. How's Mycroft? I'd truly like to know. Siblings will be siblings. Grow closer, grow apart through the years. Is he really the one keeping you sane. Because a few months ago you were on the edge, weren't you?"

Holmes mouth set itself into a thin line, his simple answer.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"No? Really, Holmes that's cold. Your own brother, flesh and blood. Not even he could help you? So what changed? What made you tolerant of him and his antics? It wasn't the Rivarlry, or the threat of the competition"—she spread her arms to indicate that it was her of whom she spoke--"Fighting for love and attention from your parents didn't help anything. So what was it, a few months ago…"

She looked decidedly at Watson then.

"Don't you dare," came the hushed voice, rumbling with anger. "Stay away from him," said Holmes.

Watson despite the current situation felt his heart soar with appreciation for his friend's suddenly obvious care for him. At least he was not to be the victim with no one in the world to care about his death.

Moriarty did not smile then. She stood still for the first time, no longer fidgety. She stood strong as stone and stared at the pair of them.

"Watson," she breathed, mouthing the name as if she was testing it for its good status in society.

"Watson the wife, Watson the soldier, the weak link." Her voice was colder than it had ever been.

"The weak leak in Sherlock Holmes' mail."

Watson felt himself shiver.

"Yes, well, don't dwell on it girls. I have work to do and bombs to set off." She glanced back at the bomb on the tile floor for dramatic effect.

"Bombs." Watson mouthed the word, and it suddenly dawned on him. "Bombs," he said louder for Moriarty to hear, "Bombs plural?"

"Course my dear Watson, I wouldn't have it any other way."

Watson shot a worried glance at Holmes. Holmes seemed to catch it instantly, if not somehow decipher what on earth Watson could be worried about over this.

He barely breathed the word.

Harry.

Watson could saw Holmes whisper back, Sister and set his teeth.

"Having a nice chat?" asked Moriarty mirthlessly. The pair gave her astonishingly good blank looks.

She glanced at the water, now being slowly dyed with Jim's blood. If they did not act soon, more than their bodies would end up at the bottom of a pile of rubble.

Sherlock cleared his throat and asked her: "So what will you do with us now?"

"I should kill you," said Moriarty in a far off voice. "But Jim had some lovely ideas. Even if he was a bit unpredictable, he was good at ideas. But never execution."

Watson felt his brain moving at a slug's pace, trying to catch up with the lightning bolts of new data as the fickle minded woman saw it fit to shot them at him.

Watson heard Holmes scoff. He knew the next thing out his mouth would potentially end with one of them dead.

"He killed at least nine people these past few weeks," Holmes stated, "He wasn't short on execution.

He had more flair, possibly. He had an artist's touch. You just point and shoot."

Madness glimmering in her eyes. Madness Watson had seen in Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty walked over, the gun still half-held at attention, and leaned down and whispered something in Holmes' ear. Watson's breath caught as he saw Holmes face scrunched in revulsion as she walked back towards Jim's body.

Nothing ever made him squeamish. Never. What could she have possibly said to make even him squirm.

Another heartbeat passed, an eternity held between those two brilliant minds and Watson, ever the watcher, the pursuer.

Then a sickening thud rang out, and Watson felt as if his left foot had shattered within his shoe.

Holmes, out of the corner of his eye, visibly flinched. Watson felt weightless for moment before gravity claimed him and he crashed to the tiled floor. He clutched his leg trying to figure out why his foot felt like it had shattered. Then he saw the blood.

Moriarty had shot him.

Watson heard Holmes voice above him.

"Are you alright? John. Are you alright?" Holmes seemed to be shocked, afraid, judging by his voice.

It seemed Moriarty had delivered on her promise. Or Jim's promise really.

Watson began to tug the shoe off, painfully while Holmes watched helplessly.

"Just grazed it," Watson replied, his voice sounding more labored than he had hoped. It had hurt him worse than he thought.

He glanced up at Moriarty and saw that she looked pleased, a grim look of satisfaction on her face.  
Watson slowly sat up, and then suddenly watched in horror as Sherlock Holmes began testing the madwoman's patience. Holmes took a tentative step towards Moriarty. Nothing happened. He took another, and another. There was no chance of her missing him now.

Then he said:

"Shoot me."

The words were so soft that Watson thought, prayed, he didn't hear them.  
But then Holmes looked back at him, taking his hands off his head and rested them at his sides. The look Holmes gave him was almost of pained affection. Then he turned his head and faced the murderess.

"Shoot. Me."

The lights flickered as the three figures stood, still as they could as one shifting in a pool of blood, another panting hard as he tried to staunch the pain, his pain, the last too close for comfort a steadfast, levelly held gun.

What was he doing? Watson thought, before the pain threatened to drag him down. Holmes body was curved into what was the picture of primal protectiveness: a lion standing over its invalid mate. Moriarty had tested him up to that point, now he was challenging her to the same. It seemed his heart was still in there, beating, unfreezing from its cold unwavering calculation.

Moriarty stood very still, her eyes filled with excitement and curiosity.

"Isn't this the sort of adventure you want?" She asked. "You staged our meeting here, and then you didn't want the smell of gunpowder to fill the air?"

Holmes shifted, a bowstring poised on the edge ready to lunge.

"Stop it," Watson found himself saying. His voice wasn't cracking yet, always good. "Just stop it.  
You're—You're feeding her."

Holmes turned his head slightly towards Watson and blinked, slowly. Holmes couldn't quite look back and glance at his friend. Not yet. Not while his defences where down.

Holmes shoulders lost their edginess. He wasn't backing off, but backing inwards.  
Moriarty looked shocked at Watson's statement, but her expression, from what he could see through the throbbing pain threatening to climb up into his stomach and into his lungs told him he was right.

She was loving this. Loving to see them in pain.

"You're not a hero, Sherlock," she said flatly. Holmes body language changed a fraction, a bit of surprise outlining his features. Moriarty had not called him by his first name until now.

She continued " You are always detached. Cold. That's what's made you good." But"—she cocked her head at Watson—"the dear doctor, he's changing all that hasn't he? You can't see straight anymore. You might become a little heroic to save him wouldn't you?"

"Don't," said Sherlock, a hint of desperation in his voice now.

"Why not?" She retorted. "You've been alone all your life, Sherlock, why do you think he's going to change all that? You talk to a skull. Besides, he's doing well. Aren't you doctor?"  
Watson swore at her. Moriarty's expression turned sour.

"There's the soldier," she said darkly. "You've trained for this Watson. After all, the other side always needs doctors."

Watson scoffed.

"What will you do with us now?" asked Holmes, the cold arrogance back in his voice. The walls were back up.

She considered Holmes a moment. "Another test," she said. She firmed her grip on the rifle and pointed it at Watson.

"So what it is about it about you, Watson? What makes you so special to him? You're like a puppet. Sherlock says go there, get my mobile, go buy milk and beans. And you do. You're not a real person here, are you John? Not since coming back from the war, not really. No real decisions, no choices. Just  
Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, your fake hero."

She winked at Holmes. "And I think he likes it."

Holmes and Watson stared at her in disgust.

"And I can make him say whatever I wish, Holmes," Moriarty continued a smirk crawling into her otherwise poker solid expression. "What would you like for me to make him say? Anything at all. I can make him say whatever you want. "

"Stop it just stop it," Holmes spat.

"Stop what Sherlock?" She asked, innocently. "I haven't done anything yet."

Suddenly she begun to shoot, not at them exactly, more at their sleeves and their shoes, the out of place wisps of hair, the edges of their ears. The tile grout edges outlining where Holmes stood and

Watson sat, already bleeding. All in near perfect marksmanship, a rapidly evenly spaced scale of target practice.

Watson tried not to flinch, but his self-preservation instincts made him do so. Holmes only seemed to blink.

She was testing their nerves, their patience, Holmes' patience. One bullet slid against his ear. It began to bled slowly. Holmes did not miss this.

"Moriarty!" He roared. His voice echoed off the high ceiling.

Moriarty blinked and then curiously, dropped the gun a few inches.

"You acknowledged me," she said a slight wistfulness in her voice."Good, Sherlock."

Holmes looked back to check on Watson to see him clutching his ear.

"I'm fine," Watson said quickly before Holmes could say anything. "It's just annoying. That's all."

Holmes bit his lip in response, his hands clutching at the sides of his pockets. He was breathing faster, his eyes roving around the pool, searching for something, his weight shifting from foot to foot.  
Then he lunged for her. Watson shouted him to stop. She would have shot him dead surely if he had not somehow caught her off guard. The rifle went off, but it was a dud shot that pinged off the tiles.

He wrestled with her for supremacy over the rifle, slipping in Jim's blood. He punched her, hard, but she did not fall. She stumbled a step backwards but then came back at him, ramming the rifle butt into his rib cage. Watson heard Holmes breath caught and he nearly doubled over. Watson struggled to get on his feet, to help, to do something, testily getting up on one leg. This was a mistake. The rifle went off as Holmes tried to disable her, to pry the rifle from her. It was an accident.

A stray lonesome bullet hit Watson in the stomach. He felt the punch and went down in seconds. Blood seeped through his fingers. He rolled on his back, and pressed down on the wound with his fingers, his eyes smarting with tears.

Oh God, oh God.

He heard a small splash, and then a scream as though someone's bones were being crushed. Watson heard another shot. And then another, and a quick gasp from Moriarty.

Watson struggled to see turning his head and pressing his cheek against the cold tiles.

Moriarty was down. She was still alive, but shot. Sherlock Holmes stood above her, the rifle nearly in her mouth.

"Now," said Holmes, breathing hard but in control. "How do we disarm the bomb?"

"It's too late," Moriarty said.

Holmes glanced up at the jacket and saw the red lights spinning faster.

"When does it go off?" He pressed the rifle to her cheek.

"10 minutes."

"Why did you arm it? Is it in sync with the others?"

The woman shook her head slowly. "I didn't—"

She gasped, and then her eyed widened in shock, mouth slightly opened in surprise. Blood began to seep through her shirt and jacket. Someone had shot her.

"Tell me the sequence." Holmes shouted at her.

"No."

"I can still hurt you."

Her answer came through clinched teeth. "I bet you tell that to all the girls."

"Who are you?"

She just smiled. As if she knew exactly how it hurt him, not knowing, a knife twist in his gut.

"You'll never know," she whispered. Then she blinked, and another shot came from above, and killed her. A bullet of mercy.

Watson could hear Holmes breathing become louder, more erratic, his hands clenched around the woman who was not Moriarty's suit. Holmes had not noticed him yet.

"Sherlock."

Holmes turned on his heel and took in Watson's predicament in a moment. He looked almost as if he couldn't breathe. Pure, unadulterated fear radiated from him as he ran towards Watson.

He knelt beside him, helping Watson lift himself up a little.

"What do I do?" Holmes asked.

"Call a hospital, idiot."

"The mobiles are dead."

Of course they are.Watson closed his eyes a moment.

"Don't fall asleep John."

"I'm not." Watson licked his lips.

"Where's the bomb?" He asked.

"It's not important."

"You can't carry me out of here."

"I can."

"No, you can't," Watson said as forcefully as he could.

Though Holmes looked like he was about to interject some scientific jargon about body weight and his own physical prowess he stopped himself. He exhaled, a long ragged breath filled with adrenaline and desperation.

"I can't leave you here--"

"Yes, you can," Watson interrupted.

"But Moriarty—"

"Would've shot us dead by now. Go."

"He's a man," Sherlock whispered. Teeth set within that iron locked jaw. "He has a name and it's Moriarty." he said it to himself more than John, trying to convince himself more than anyone else that he wasn't pulling at strings. This was his way of making it better, of saying he was sorry. I will find him.

"I'll be alright Sherlock. Go. Go find a mobile. Nick it if you have to. We'll be here."

Holmes gave Watson a rueful smile. Then he stood up, and sprinted from the building. A cold, ragged sprint against time. And as he did, Watson thought for the briefest moment, that he saw another shadow following Holmes slim goblin one on the ceiling. A bit taller, wider, it seemed to engulf him.  
Watson's only consolation was that if he didn't bled out in the next several minutes, he would be blown to pieces.

He heard the infernal bomb whir in the silence. How long had it been since the woman was shot? He thought to himself. Was the real Moriarty still here, still watching him? Though the thought turned his stomach, he did not care. He actually felt more peace than he had in a long time. He realized he was content, perhaps for the first time since coming back from Afghanistan.

He couldn't help thinking through the pain about Holmes, what this would do to him. If he lived, and he better, Holmes would ultimately feel guilty and he would be mad for days on end. Without knowing who she really was, the woman in the suit. Cause she would disappear, Jim would disappear, their true names are erased from the history books. No traces. Perhaps Moriarty is not a really a name of single person, but an idea. Maybe there will be more Moriarty's, or more copycats. More riddles for Sherlock Holmes to solve. It might kill him. This Moriarty, whoever it was might drown Holmes, pulling him into a maelstrom of twisted games. Watson would have to look out for him. Watch him. Make sure he didn't do anything stupid. Maybe he was a puppet, but at least he was loyal, he thought bitterly.

The bomb began to whir more ominously. Watson struggled to move, but the slightest thing would pin him to the ground against with an agonizing throb in his gut.  
His vision was beginning to dim, he was about to pass out. Just before he did, he heard a man running.

A man running named Sherlock Holmes.

Watson vaguely remembered himself being lifted onto a gurney and carried out of the building. He heard a rumble behind him, a slight rush of heat. The bomb. No one had figured out how to disarm it.

His next available memory was of the hospital. Holmes was pacing in the corner, texting furiously, shooting Watson a concerned glance every so often. He had not changed, his hair wild, bangs plastered to his forehead, his trousers and shirt cuffs stained with blood. Whether with Moriarty's—no, not Moriarty's--or his own blood he didn't know.

"Stop moving," he said, once he managed to speak without the dry aftertaste of some drug coating his tongue.

Holmes halted and gracefully fall into one of the awkwardly small hospital chairs. Watson couldn't help but grin at his long legs sticking out.

"What?" Holmes was oblivious as always.

Watson found himself giggling before it became too painful. Watson closed his eyes and wished he was at 221b, so he could stare at the awful wallpaper for once, instead of the speckled white hospital ceiling. He had seen enough of hospital ceilings.

"Did you find anything?" He asked, hoping that Holmes worried expression would dissolve into analytical precision, like the old Holmes, the one before all this. And it did, sort of, the worry lines wrinkling his forehead disappeared, but the lines about his mouth stayed the same.

"No," Holmes said quietly pinching the bridge of his nose. "I even called Mycroft. Actually called him. Still, nothing. The two bodies were blown to nothing. There's nothing."

Nothing wasn't the answer Sherlock Holmes ever wanted. A piece, a fraction of evidence would lead to solving a case. If Holmes said there was no obtainable evidence, there must be nothing.

"What about the blood—" Watson began to ask, but Holmes cut him off.

"The blood on my clothes is yours, though there was traces of blood on my shoes from the woman."

"Who has she?"

"I don't know." It killed him to say that. It must have. Sherlock Holmes always knew.

"Did you tell Lestrade that you shot her?"

"I didn't shoot her," came the quiet reply.

"What?"

"I didn't," Holmes repeated. There was something awful going on underneath that clean façade.

He looked up, meeting Watson's gaze for the first time. Guilt hung off him.

"I wanted her alive, Watson. But I could've shot her. I would have."

It was then Watson realized it might have been better if Holmes had been shot. Maybe it would have held him back, made him feel less guilty about still being whole and well. This not knowing, those few seconds between that shot, and the shot from above, the one that killed the woman had been Moriarty, would eat at him for weeks.

Silence bent the room in half, and Watson was just about to call the nurse to escort Holmes from the room, to get some sleep, some food, when Holmes whispered something.

"Sorry?"

"She was his sister." He said louder. One tiny piece of information, and Holmes was Holmes again.  
Watson lay back against the pillows and counted backwards from ten before asking Holmes why that was so.

"I…I just know." For once, Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

"Can you not see?" Holmes implored after a few seconds, hands in his hair, as if by pulling his hair the images, the tiny pieces of information, bits of his own intuition would fall into his lap.  
Watson tried to imagine Jim Moriarty and the woman in the suit being related, a connection between the murdered and the murderess.

"No. Not really."

But that was alright. They would leave the hospital soon, go back to 221b and they would piece the puzzle back in place. Somehow.

Together.


End file.
